Logos Virtual Library: George Herbert: The Temple: The Church: Confession

George Herbert

George Herbert (1593-1633)

The Temple

Confession

O what a cunning guest
Is this same grief! within my heart I made

Closets; and in them many a chest;

And like a master in my trade,
In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till:
Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will.

No scrue, no piercer can
Into a piece of timber work and winde,

As Gods afflictions into man,

When he a torture hath design’d.
They are too subtill for the subt’llest hearts;
And fall, like rheumes, upon the tendrest parts.

We are the earth; and they,
Like moles within us, heave, and cast about:

And till they foot and clutch their prey,

They never cool, much lesse give out.
No smith can make such locks, but they have keyes:
Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-wayes.

Onely an open breast
Doth shut them out, so that they cannot enter;

Or, if they enter, cannot rest,

But quickly seek some new adventure.
Smooth open hearts no fastning have; but fiction
Doth give a hold and handle to affliction.

Wherefore my faults and sinnes,
Lord, I acknowledge; take thy plagues away:

For since confession pardon winnes,

I challenge here the brightest day,
The clearest diamond: let them do their best,
They shall be thick and cloudie to my breast.